Asphyxia
by xxsewnlipsxx
Summary: Glenn's fascinated by the sight of Daryl smoking. Daryl/Glenn


Asphyxia

Glenn's breath hitches when he hears the catch of the lighter stutter several times, the flint inside struggling to sustain a flame with the cool October wind blowing steadily through their tiny campsite, buffeting the campfire and ruffling their hair. He shifts slightly, tilting his head to the side almost too casually, attempting to be clandestine in his voyeurism, eyes glued to the titillating sight of Daryl struggling to light one of the very last cigarettes in camp. A sudden burst of heat from the fire laps against his knees and, finding the external heat combined with his own hot-under-the-collar state to be overwhelming, he shrinks further into himself, pulling his knees closer to his chest and hugging them tightly.

Daryl swears low and deep, voice tinged with annoyance, and shakes the lighter several times, tapping it against his knee once as if damaging the item will help it combat the consistent wind. He cups his rough, potentially-violent hand around the cigarette poised between his lips and tries the catch again. For a moment, Glenn becomes absolutely distracted by the way his bones move beneath his skin, tendons tugging on muscle, signals from the brain making his hands flex sensually, slowly. Glenn can hear the sound of his thumb brushing with intent against the side of the cheap, plastic lighter.

The moment the flame finally catches is immense, resounding, and all-consuming. In the quiet of the night, broken only by the singing grasshoppers and snapping logs, it is entirely _too loud_, like someone dropping a match in a room doused heavily with gasoline, a frantic _woosh_ that makes Glenn jump in surprise and mesmerizes him thereafter. Daryl breathes in through the filter, the poison-laced tobacco, hoping to ignite the tip of the cigarette with a single flame, burning embers that will glow spectacularly orange in the dark shade of the trees. Glenn holds his breath, watching, waiting.

Quite quickly, Daryl casts the lighter aside, tossing it easily as though it's of no importance, its usefulness fulfilled, something to be utilized and discarded without a second thought. Glenn follows it with his gaze as it lands only a foot or so away, dully clacking against the ground and lying in the dirt, emerald green and partially translucent so one can check the amount of fuel without fuss. The silver top glints beautifully, the light from the fire making it shine with an orange hue. Daryl takes the cigarette from his mouth, breathing in, his chest expanding, shoulders rising before blowing out in a gush, plumes of thick white smoke billowing from his mouth as though he is a great dragon about to breathe out the fire smoldering in its belly. The cloud thins the further away it gets from Daryl, becoming evanescent, curling toward the sky, twisting in on itself and disappearing into the darkness of the tree overhead.

Glenn's only vaguely aware that his mouth is open, that he and Daryl are the only ones sitting by the fire anymore, that Daryl is facing him and staring straight, can't possibly miss the careful way he's watching that fleeting smoke, can't possibly with his intelligence miss the blatant interest shining iridescent in his liquid obsidian gaze. Daryl's blue eyes settle on him, and he takes another brilliant drag, balancing the cigarette between his forefinger and middle, arm hooked over his bent knee while the other is straight, foot near enough to the fire to melt the sole while the heat of his gaze is intense enough to _melt the soul_.

Exhaling, Daryl tilts his hand up, inspecting the tip of the cigarette intently before meeting Glenn's gaze again. "You smoke?" he asks, and the scent is beginning to drift towards Glenn, riding on the question, acrid and powerful, smelling like death and drugs and college dorms and rundown apartment buildings. Smelling like ashtrays and seedy bars in downtown Atlanta. Like sex and alcohol.

"No," he replies after a moment, shifting again, his heart beginning to beat a tattoo against his brittle ribs.

Instead of an answer, Daryl grunts deep in his throat, voice primal and startlingly low, sending a thrill right through Glenn that makes him squirm inside. He lifts the cigarette again, eyes intent on Glenn, but doesn't put it in his mouth. He appears to be considering, thinking, and Glenn can feel the smoke embracing him, sinking deep into his flesh so as to leave its mark, clogging his lungs and constricting his throat. He has no idea how Daryl can stand to be in the very thick of it, can stand to voluntarily take in the carcinogens that threaten to shorten his tentative lifespan. He has no idea why such a simple thing fascinates him so, why he can't stand to turn away, why he must watch every sinuous movement as it happens.

"Want to?" the hunter asks, flickering light on his face highlighting the amusement there, accentuating the defined line of his jaw, setting his eyes aglow like the end of his cigarette.

"No," Glenn swallows thickly, following the familiar shift in muscles as Daryl takes his third drag, letting the deathly object stay between his lips for a long while, returning his arm to his side and puffing several times, smoke seeping heavily like a noxious gas from the corners of his mouth. He nods a few times, scanning the darkness behind Glenn before plucking the cigarette from his lips and taking note of Dale sitting on his RV, keeping watch as is custom even on Herschel's idyllic farm.

Seemingly satisfied, Daryl jerks his head towards his tent and stands fluidly, long legs taking him toward the dark, sloping silhouette closest to the RV where he can be called upon when he is needed to take the watch in a few more hours. Glenn watches with a sinking feeling in his stomach as he slinks further and further away, postulating that perhaps Daryl is going to sleep before his turn as the lookout, the glowing tip of his addiction growing faint. Just a few feet away, though, he stops and glances at Glenn. "You coming?" he nearly whispers, all gravel and anticipation. Without waiting for an answer, he lopes towards his tent and ducks in the flap without zipping it up.

A hundred different thoughts race through Glenn's mind, but he decides just then not to think _for once_ but just to do. So he stumbles into a standing position and creeps along the length of the camp toward the tent he's never even helped set up and, hesitating for perhaps too long given his pledge not to think about his actions, he slides inside.

All he sees his blackness and one guiding light—the burning tip of the cigarette. Inside the tent it's a very small steeple, barely big enough for one grown man let alone two. He can feel the soft give of a sleeping bag beneath his bony knees and a blanket cast down as a makeshift carpet to fight off the cold of the vinyl floor in direct contact with the ground. The smell of the cigarette is even more pungent here, the two of them so close he's in danger of being burned by it. Daryl's deft hands zip up the tent flap, the teeth sliding into place a sound almost as deafening as the catch of the lighter, the catalyst that started all of this.

A large hand presses against his chest, and he struggles to breathe through the haze of the smoke, his own nerves, and the proximity of their bodies. They are _very close_, he knows, closer than he's ever thought he'd be to Daryl Dixon despite how he's lusted after him for the past few weeks as life has settled into something resembling normality. He can feel the warm press of another's body, knows and has missed the heat of a man so close. The palm on his chest slides up over his shoulder, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. Another hand plucks the hat from his head and casts it aside much like the lighter, nothing important, inconsequential. The cigarette is smoldering between Daryl's lips, and it burns even more brightly as he breathes in, absorbing the nicotine as intended.

The glow moves quickly away then, and Daryl leans forward to press his mouth against Glenn's in a slow, sensual kiss that sparks every nerve in Glenn's body. He gasps slightly, scooting a bit forward with his knees, attempting to deepen the kiss, but Daryl holds back, keeping it chaste and sweet. The taste of ashes lingers on his lips, death mixed with a musk Glenn is unfamiliar with. It is not unpleasant; at this point he's used to death, knows it well, has made his peace. A tongue slides carefully against his lower lip, teeth tugging, the wet smacking of their mouths as erotic as it is embarrassing.

Daryl pulls back, and Glenn's eyes are adjusting to the darkness. He can see nothing in Daryl's face that suggests he is anything but serious, notes only the mutual want in his eyes, the calm and certainty with which he is approaching the situation. Glenn shivers as hands slide under his t-shirt, calluses catching on his smooth skin, rough but comforting, tough and substantial. He is helped out of his shirt and pressed down, down onto his back with a dangerous man poised over him, the glowing tip pointed at an odd angle away from Glenn's face, arms braced on either side of his head, blue eyes staring down at him . Daryl, a man of few words, simply asks, "Want to?"

Glenn sucks in a heady breath, suffocating under a cerulean gaze and the thickening fog of the cigarette smoke. Daryl's hard knee is situated between his thighs, and he can feel the slight scrape of coarse, well-worn cloth against his naked torso. "Yeah," he finds himself saying in a soft whisper, reaching up to grip the back of Daryl's neck, thumb barely touching the lobe of his ear, and pulling him down even further. "Yeah, I do."

Again the glow moves, Daryl temporarily removing the scalding obstacle between them, and kissing Glenn hard and deep, passion taking over, tongue diving through slightly parted lips to tangle and entice. The hand not holding onto his cigarette glides seductively over bony, exposed ribs, pausing long enough for a thumb to dig hard into his hip, excitingly close to his groin. An arm wraps around his neck, and he feels the wet filter against his shoulder blade as their hips slot together, threadbare, torn jeans brushing quietly.

Glenn's fingers tug on the hem of Daryl's thick grey-green wife beater but are ignored in favor of the hunter popping the button on Glenn's jeans, zipper coming apart easily. Angling his chin up, Glenn fights to dominate the kiss momentarily, dizzy from the turn of events. He's panting already, like Daryl has been siphoning the oxygen from his lungs, poisoning the air so he can't recharge. Making him weak, making him desperate. Daryl gives a little when he leans up, relenting enough so their teeth aren't clacking, kisses aren't bruising. Then he pulls back completely and guides Glenn down onto the sleeping bag so that he's flat on his back, hands falling to Daryl's thighs which are straddling his waist. The cigarette burns hot again as he takes a drag and leans down, mouth against Glenn's neck.

He breathes out hot and slow, smoke billowing against Glenn's skin, spreading like a heavy miasma over his bared flesh, sending goosebumps erupting all over his body. His breath hitches, and he tenses against the sensation as Daryl does it again and again, sinking lower over his middle with each exhale. By the time he's blowing voluptuously against Glenn's quivering belly button, all he can taste and feel and smell is smoke and heat and zinging pleasure. He watches the play of Daryl's muscles beneath his skin as the man stretches over him and flicks the ashes somewhere distantly in the tent, sparks flying hot and red before disappearing.

The glow is dimmer now and closer to Daryl's face, meaning the cigarette must be nearly done. Glenn's pulling lungful after lungful of the smoke in, the scent clinging to his skin and clothes and hair, the taste lingering on his lips and tongue and teeth. He's never smoked a day in his life, used to get angry with his friends for doing so around him, but there's something incredibly erotic about it all, something that makes his stomach churn with desire as he watches Daryl pull one last time on the cigarette before licking his thumb and crushing the burning end down. There's a brief sizzle as it goes out, one last dying sound as the casing cracks and gives under the pressure of Daryl's thumb.

Daryl throws it somewhere in the tent and leans down to ferociously kiss his quarry, fingers roughly hooking inside Glenn's underwear and jeans and yanking them down without warning. Glenn moans, his arousal thickening as his bare skin is pressed suggestively against the tight denim of Daryl's still-buttoned, still-zipped jeans. He shimmies out of his pants and underwear, losing one sock in the process but managing to keep the other. Cold air washes over him, but he's quickly covered. Once again, he tries to get Daryl to disrobe, but the attention is shifted to him, all open-mouthed kisses and swipes of heated tongue.

"_Daryl_," he gasps into the man's ear, fingernails digging into the thin fabric still covering his back, knees bent and stomach taut. He feels Daryl smile against his skin, but it's fleeting and quickly wiped away with a sharp nip and soothing tongue. The bite marks on his hips are pleasantly stinging, wet and sore. "Daryl," he whispers, plucking at the wife beater again, pleading.

Growling slightly, Daryl sits up and shucks the top in one smooth motion, casting it carelessly into the dark. When he bends back down it's with the sole intention of swallowing Glenn whole, and Glenn bites his lower lip hard against the startled whimper that threatens to come out when the wet heat envelopes him without warning. He writhes on the ground, fingers plunging into Dary's hair, nails digging into scalp, anything to ground him, keep him sane, keep him from crying out and alerting the whole camp. The sensations increase, they go on, they stretch him out and let him collect himself into a puddle of liquid pleasure. And Daryl is unyielding and skilled and little too slow, but that's okay because Glenn never thought find himself in this position and he's quite content to get whatever he's dealt.

Daryl pulls away just when he's about to burst at the seams, panting, thin sheen of sweat covering his lithe, sinewy body. He hears a drifting chuckle in the darkness and realizes quite suddenly that he's never heard Daryl laugh before—derisive snorts and spontaneous scoffs of amusement but never laughter, never chuckling. The sound is deep and low and rich and marvelous, and Glenn reaches for him, touching the raised ridges of scars on his back and upper arms and lower belly, cherishing each imperfection, worshiping them with his soft, city fingers, mouth working at Daryl's neck and over his stubble.

They kiss again, clashing, desperate, and Glenn groans, shutting his eyes and jerking his head back when he's squeezed solidly in a tight grip and pumped over and over again. And he can scarcely breathe with the smoke still in the air and Daryl's weight on top of him, crotch of his jeans moving steadily against his thigh—it's all heat and movement and gasps and groans and totally wonderful and perhaps the most potent, wonderful experience he's had since this entire apocalypse has started.

He doesn't mean to, but he scratches Daryl _hard_ when he reaches his end, no doubt leaving marks behind with his blunt nails. But it's just more scars, more markings to a man like Daryl Dixon, and he doesn't say anything about it, doesn't chastise or even hiss in pain. Instead, he stands his ground and grunts himself, probably spilling into his jeans if the noise, the first one he's made since the initial question, is anything to go by. Afterwards he becomes languid and boneless, flipping easily onto his back like a cat sunning itself on a rock while Glenn pants and recovers in a much less graceful, attractive way.

Minutes pass in silence. Glenn's breathing slows, a blush inching its way up his neck and warming his cheeks. He wonders vaguely where his pants are, can't even begin to remember how this entire thing started until Daryl stretches and reaches around in the depths of his tent overhead. Glenn hears the rustle of what sounds like cardboard, and it goes on for a few more minutes before Daryl huffs in disappointment.

"Out of smokes," he grumbles. "Ain't that a bitch?"

Glenn just shuts his eyes and laughs softly, marveling at how odd his life has become.

* * *

**Smoking is not sexy! It's a detestable habit, and I find it disgusting. So I have no idea where this came from, lol. I also know that it's implausible and out of character (given that Norman Reedus has said that he's playing Daryl as a virgin) and Glenn now has a girlfriend, the farm's in ruins, they're holed up in a prison, etc. Here it is anyway. Thanks for reading. Review please.**


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